


Over the Waterfall

by VicStone



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Apologies, Biting, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Feels, Clint Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Drunkenness, Explosions, Feels, Finch is an Idiot, Handcuffs, Hurt Clint Barton, Jealous Coulson, Light Bondage, M/M, Nat Saves the Day... Again, Nat saves Clint's butt, Nick Fury Knows All, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Poor Clint, Post-Avengers (2012), Roses, SHIELD Husbands, Tasers, Top Phil Coulson, drunk, humor under fire, irreverent humor, phlint - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-21 11:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2466365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VicStone/pseuds/VicStone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after Coulson's death, Clint's convinced he's moved on. But everyone else knows better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Is It Worth the Wait?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's new handler is an incompetent boob. Thank god for Natasha.

Clint’s back is pressed to the side of an outhouse like he’d be glad to sink into the decaying wood. All things considered, that might not be so bad, really. Shots ring out, ricocheting from some trees a hundred meters to his left, and he realizes he’s probably about to die next to a shitter in the jungles outside of Oaxaca. Except that by the time the story gets to the water coolers back in New York, he’ll have probably been sitting inside it when AIM gets to him.

 

“Finch?” Clint hisses into the woods around him, hoping at least his earpiece still works. “Finch! I need you to fucking tell me something. Where the hell are they, how many, which direction I go… Shit, I’d settle for reassurance that you’re still fucking conscious. Just breathe into the microphone or… shit!” A spray of bullets hits the ground a little closer. _“Finch!”_

 

“I’m here, Hawkeye. I’m just… I’m not seeing a good way out. Can you… shoot some of them?”

 

“Why the hell didn’t I think of that? Oh, right. _Because I’m out of arrows,”_ the marksman growls under his breath, crouching against the outhouse. “Finch. You’re going to need to get suddenly compet—Fuck my _life.”_ A grenade rolls across the ground a few feet away, and Clint reflexively hits the dirt.

 

The next thing the archer realizes, he’s rolling down an embankment, his ears ringing and pain radiating from a source he can’t identify yet. He comes to a stop against a pile of dirt, and distantly registers something foul-smelling. He looks back up the embankment… and realizes he can’t see out of his left eye. And that the side of his face is where most of the pain is coming from. Reaching up, he touches his cheek and draws back a bloodied hand, cringing. He looks back up the embankment and distantly registers Finch screaming into his ear over the ringing. He doesn’t bother answering. Let Finch sweat a little.

 

Clint stays still for several long moments, laying facedown at the bottom of the ravine, and he’s almost convinced AIM has given up when his ringing ears manage to pick up gunfire. A bullet lands inches in front of his nose, flinging dirt and rock in his face. Without a thought, he’s crawling for the nearest shelter he sees, gathering only after he’s slid into it backwards and out of sight that it’s a sewer runoff. “Fuck. Finch, I swear, you are doing my laundry for a month when I get back. _If_ I get back.”

 

It feels like hours before his ears stop ringing, and then he realizes he can’t really hear out of the left one. Finch is still demanding status updates, and Clint is ignoring him as hard as he can after the first few check-ins. The archer tenses as he hears light footfalls growing closer, a black shadow falling across the circle of light at the end of the drain pipe. A light shines painfully in his face, and he squints his good eye against it, reaching back for his knife.

 

“Jesus, Clint. There’s a rocky overhang like six feet away. I swear, you boys just _find_ excuses to roll in crud.”

 

“Nat. You got here just in time. Finch is trying to kill me.”

 

“Kill you? He can’t even find you. But you _do_ look like shit.”

 

“Funny, since I’m covered in it.”

 

“Can you crawl out? No offense, but I really don’t want to go in there after you.”

 

Clint is already hauling himself out, realizing after who-knows-how-long laying still just how banged up and sore he is. “Can’t find me? Something wrong with the GPS?”

 

“No. Just his brain.”

 

Clint manages to get himself out of the pipe and leans back against the embankment. He realizes a moment later that the jungle has gone extraordinarily quiet. “You kill all the wildlife, too?” He smiles weakly as Natasha leans over him, obviously looking over his wounds. “How bad is it?”

 

“The ecosystem will recover. Your eye, I’m not so sure of. Good thing you’re ambidextrous.”

 

The words are light-hearted, but she looks grim. Clint hates that look. Especially when she’s looking at his dominant eye. “You called in an exfil, right? And some pain killers?”

 

A curt nod. “Yep. Just relax.”

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

After getting a fresh set of clothes and a trip through medical, Clint is feeling pretty horrible. He wants to take some of the painkillers he’s been given and be unconscious for a few hours. He’s a little too pissed off for that, though, and instead finds himself making a beeline for Maria Hill’s office. He shoves the door open and presses both palms flat against her desk, leaning over her with a scowl.

 

Hill doesn’t look up immediately, but freezes after a few seconds, her eyes finally rising to Clint’s face as she wrinkles her nose. “What the hell is that smell, Barton?”

 

Clint straightens, his scowl disappearing as he self-consciously sniffs at his clothes and armpits. “I… I showered!”

 

“You’re going to need to do that again. Times six.”

 

The archer folds his arms over his chest and manages to put his scowl back into place. “I want a new handler.”

 

“Well, that’s new. Usually they ask for a new asset before you can get in here.”

 

“Finch is trying to kill me.”

 

“He just needs work.”

 

“As a _janitor.”_

 

Hill raises an eyebrow at Clint, gesturing for him to take a few steps back. “And stay off the furniture,” she adds as Clint moves—sorely—to sit down. “Barton, I put you with a weaker—“

 

“Worthless.”

 

“A _weaker_ handler because he can learn from you, _and_ you’ve got the resourcefulness to handle yourself if things go bad.”

 

“Maria. Hill,” he corrects himself when he gets a stony glare for using her first name. “Things didn’t go _bad._ They went to _hell_. I was lying in a sewer drain for an hour. With open wounds.”

 

“You survived just fine.”

 

He doesn’t think about it, slams his hands on her desk, managing to halfway ignore the pain the jolt sends through his skull. “The eye patch, perforated eardrum, and wad of antibiotic peanut butter in my _ass cheek_ would like to disagree with you!”

 

Hill pauses and looks up. “Perforated eardrum?”

 

Clint opens his mouth to growl a response and then closes it, brow furling in confusion. “I can’t see out of my dominant eye, and you’re focused on the eardrum?” Hill nods at him. “Yes, perforated eardrum. Lucky for me, Stark apparently does ear implant thingies.”

 

“Technical term?” Hill goes back to poking at her computer. “Is your eye going to get better?”

 

“Docs think so,” Clint says, looking a little uneasy. He doesn’t really like the idea of not having depth perception ever again. He’s not quite sure how Fury does it, and he doesn’t really want to figure it out.

 

“Oh, good.”

 

“I want a new handler.” Clint flops down in Hill’s chair defiantly and bites his bottom lip as the knot of medicine in one cheek makes its presence known. “Before I’m asleep tonight.”

 

Hill looks up and tilts her head, her expression softening. Slightly. Maybe Clint’s imagining it. Or maybe she’s annoyed he’s smelling up her chair. “Barton, you’re not going to get another Phil Coulson.”

 

The archer does his best not to react to the finality of the words, but he can’t help the slight twitch of his shoulders. “I know.” He’s suddenly quiet, and he slouches back against the chair.

 

“You’re staying with Finch. He’s the only handler you’ve had that hasn’t requested a different asset.”

 

“Only one since Coulson,” Clint corrects her. “That’s because no one else will take him.”

 

Hill presses her lips together and nods, unable to quite make eye contact.

 

He takes a deep breath and pushes himself out of the chair. He feels defeated, though he’s not sure it’s because he’s stuck with Finch. “You don’t mind if I take a few days off, do you, Agent Hill?” His voice is rough, shaking a little more than he’d like.

 

“Barton.” He doesn’t turn around. “Clint…”

 

He stops and turns halfway toward her. “Hill. I just want a new handler.” _Or the old one._

 

“If you need anything—“ The door slams behind him before she has a chance to finish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to give a nod to the fact that Clint's deaf in the comics. I think I read somewhere that they showed him using a hearing aid of sorts, but I also remember an issue that was all ASL or something somewhere. Anyway! Yeah, that. And also banged-up!Clint is just somehow adorable.


	2. "I Love You" Never Felt Like Any Blessing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's seeing ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm weak. Here's another chapter already.

Agent Phil Coulson is going to stab the next person who says the words “need to know” to him. Probably with something ridiculous. Like a stapler. Even if it’s Fury, whose office he’s currently stalking towards with his usual “no bullshit” gait. It’s been two years since his fatal encounter with Loki, and that’s too damn long.

 

Coulson doesn’t wait for Fury to look up or say anything. “He’s got a level 7 clearance. I think the fact that his handler isn’t dead is something he needs to know.” Fury’s looking at him now, offering little but his typical thousand yard scowl. Coulson sticks his chin out defiantly. “Also, if I don’t get a yes, I’m doing it anyway. Giving me permission would save you a lot of paperwork.”

 

“Agent Coulson, I give the orders—“

 

“Nick, so help me, I will put your other eye out.”

 

The corner of his mouth twitches toward what might have been a smile before Fury scowls a little harder, then slowly nods. “Stay away from Stark Tower. Remember: _most_ of SHIELD isn’t allowed to see you. Including the Avengers.”

 

Coulson relaxes a little, honestly surprised at how easy that was. “Thank you, sir.”

 

“Oh, don’t thank me.” Fury’s already turning back to his paperwork.

 

“Sir?”

 

“You’ve got your permission, Coulson.”

 

“Uh… yes sir,” Phil answers. He knows that tone, though. Fury knows things, of course. Things Phil probably doesn’t want to know. Things he has a feeling he’s going to find out on his own.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The key Fury gave him works just fine on Clint’s lock, and Phil finds himself wondering why the hell Fury even _had_ the key in the first place. _Was Fury expecting this?_ Of course he was. Ultimate Spy, and all.

 

Deciding it doesn’t matter, Coulson slips into the darkened apartment. Sneaking up in broad daylight seemed like a bad idea, so under cover of darkness was the next approach. He eases carefully into the apartment, looking around in the dim light filtering through the windows. Still typically Spartan. Just a few clothes and gadgets strewn about. Clint’s bow folded up in its case in the corner. Phil’s eyes fall on a picture taped to Clint’s computer desk right before all hell breaks loose.

 

The lights flick on, and Phil gathers nothing but impressions. Clint in nothing but boxers, a blur of predatory motion, an arm as strong as steel sliding around his neck from behind, hot breath puffing on his ear.

 

“Who the fuck are you? _What_ are you?” The words are grated out between clenched teeth, the painfully familiar voice ragged with… sleep? Emotion? “You might’ve missed the memo, but the guy you’re dressed as is _dead_.”

 

Phil knows better than to struggle. Clint’s got him situated for a broken neck or at best a blood choke. Years of working with the man had never found Coulson at the archer’s mercy, but it was easy to see how Barton’s enemies were so easily unsettled. “I’m not, actually.” Coulson gags a little as the arm squeezes his throat, and he registers that Clint has a wrist lock on one of his arms. “Clint…”

 

“You better come up with something better than that.” This time, there’s definitely a tremor of emotion behind the words. Hurt.

 

Phil’s voice is mostly level, but only because he’s making himself forget the pain he just heard in Clint’s voice. “Your favorite movies are Pixar films. You always left beer bottles around that I had to pick up, and you finally admitted you just thought I was cute when I was frustrated at you. ‘Budapest’ is our cover term for the night your big mouth got our team into a block wide bar fight in a Tehran speakeasy.” Phil takes a deep breath. The grip around his neck is loosening. “The cellist was the cover story for you. For us. Because SHIELD didn’t want any moles knowing about us. Because it would be a threat if either of us was ever captured or tortured.” The arm slides away from him completely, and Phil turns to see Clint stepping back, looking shocked. He takes in the man’s appearance: several days’ stubble, the bandage over his eye, the scrapes and bruises. _Someone’s had it rough._ “Good enough?” he asks gently.

 

“Good enough.” The words sound flat. Numb.

 

“Clint… What happened?” Phil holds out a hand. He had sort of expected they’d be hugging it out by now.

 

The archer stares suspiciously at the hand, then crosses his arms self-consciously over his chest. “Where’ve you been?”

 

“Dead. Classified. On a short leash.” Clint looks halfway terrified. Phil wants to pull him close and nurse his wounds and tell him it’ll all be okay now.

 

“Why didn’t you come find me?” Clint’s voice sounds oddly small and hurt, and Phil feels his heart sink.

 

 “I didn’t know—“

 

“You didn’t ask?” The question’s sharp.

 

“I was afraid to.” Phil’s lips press together and he looks away guiltily.

 

“That’s fucking stupid, Phil. I was in containment for _months_. I thought you were _dead_. I went fucking _crazy_ thinking I had to live without you forever and you could’ve fucking come to find me and been there for me, but you were _afraid_ to fucking _ask?!”_ The archer’s leaning forward, arms clenched over his chest like he’s trying to protect himself even as he attempts to look intimidating.

 

Phil bites his lower lip. He wants to apologize, but that doesn’t seem like remotely enough. “Clint, I still love you.” The words are soft. Phil wonders if he’s the only one that heard his voice crack a little. He watches Clint’s expression darken further as the man straightens, and Phil’s heart sinks to his feet.

 

“Don’t. Don’t do that to me, goddammit.” Clint’s voice is ragged, his jaw set hard. “You were gone two fucking years and I’m just starting to get over you being dead, and you can’t just… come in here and say that to me like it makes everything okay.”

 

“Clint, they wouldn’t let me—“

 

Clint’s hand slams into the wall. “You’ve broken protocol a million times before!” he snarls. “Why the _fuck_ was it so hard to do it this time? Why?!”

 

“Clint, I thought you were dead.” His voice is level, but Phil has to take a second before he continues. “Or still Loki’s plaything. I couldn’t stand to hear the answer.” He presses his lips together in a thin line. “And when I _did_ find out, they didn’t want me anywhere near you in case…”

 

“In case I was a sleeper.” Clint looks a little defeated. And sore. He winces as he steps forward.

 

For a moment, Phil thinks Clint is relenting, then the archer walks past him and back to his bedroom. “Clint—“

 

“Get out, Phil. Go back to the hole you’ve been hiding in. You waited too long.”

 

The words are like a knife in the chest—Phil should know—and he fights to breathe for a moment, barely registering the slam of Clint’s bedroom door. His gaze wanders the room for a moment, drifting again to the photo stuck to Clint’s desk. Recognizing the couple in the picture cuts even deeper, and Phil hurries to leave.

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

Clint crawls sorely out of bed the next morning, still groggy from pain meds. He thinks for a moment that he must have dreamed Phil showing up in his apartment, but then he catches a whiff of the man’s aftershave as he moves toward the kitchen. He settles on the couch, turning the events over in his head over and over until he’s feeling half crazed. _I could_ really _use a beer._


	3. Love's an Iron Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Clint's a drunken idiot, and Nat's not having any of it.

Clint knows he’s drunk, because he didn’t register that Natasha was there until she sat down at the bar next to him. Or she just didn’t want to be noticed until she did. That’s always possible. “Buy you a drink, beautiful?”

 

She rolls her eyes and points to her vodka. “Already done.” She tilts her head at his bottle and raises an eyebrow. “How many of _those_ have you had?”

 

“You my probation officer?”

 

One slim shoulder rises in a shrug. “Just wondering. Can’t blame you. I mean, you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

 

Clint puts his bottle down and looks at her more directly. “I do?” Well, she knows something.

 

“I talked to Fury.”

 

“You do that pretty often. We both do.” He takes another drink. He knows that’s not the point, but he’s not in the mood to volunteer information. It isn’t like Agent Natasha “the Black Widow” Romanov won’t find a way to get whatever she wants out of him, anyway. Every time he thinks he’s figured out her games, she’s already rewritten the rules.

 

“Coulson’s alive.” A beat. “You’re not spitting beer across the bar, so you knew that.”

 

She’s sipping her vodka casually, but Clint knows better. “You didn’t get that out of Fury just by asking nicely.”

 

“You and I both know I can get people to do what I want.”

 

“Yeah, but it’s a little terrifying when you’re doing it to the spy from which all lesser spies were cast. Successfully.”

 

“He visited you.” The words almost sound like an accusation. Or maybe Clint just feels like it is.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“But you’re here instead of locked in your apartment having hot, noisy reunion sex.”

 

Clint tenses like he’s been hit, and Nat actually straightens a little in her chair when he turns his glare on her. She looks a little like she expects him to take a swing, and that’s enough to calm him. A little. “I’m dating someone. Coulson waited too long.”

 

“Wow. Last name. He really must’ve pissed you off.”

 

“I’m in a _relationship_ , Nat.” This conversation is getting uncomfortable.

 

“Fucking Tony Stark is not a relationship. It’s pretty much as far from it as you can get without including masturbation in the spectrum.”

 

“Classy.”

 

“Honest.”

 

“We’ve been together for three months.”

 

“You’ve been having interval sex with him for three months. When was the last time he called you for something other than to get laid? Or answered one of your texts?”

 

“Nat. I’m happy. I was. And then _he_ had to fucking show up…” Clint feels a lump rise in his throat, and he becomes suddenly interested in his beer bottle. “And he shows up and fucking throws a wrench in the works. If he really gave a shit, he’d have turned up sooner.”

 

“He thought you were dead. Or worse.”

 

“Funny, ‘cause I was kind of going through the same fucking thing, except no one came and told me he wasn’t, even though I’ve got the clearance for it.”

 

Nat watches him for a long, uncomfortable moment, and Clint’s pretty sure he’s actually going to blister under that stare. “You should talk to him.”

 

“Don’t have a phone number.” He takes a drink from his beer bottle as if that’s the end of it.

 

“You’re a SHIELD agent. I feel like you _might_ have the resources to find that information.”

 

Clint shoves himself away from the bar, nearly falls. Nat’s there, catching him, propping him up, and he sighs. “I’m going home, Nat.”

 

She’s already put down a wad of cash on the bar, and she grabs a handful of Clint’s leather jacket and holds him steady. “You’re a lot better at looking functionally sober when you’re sitting down.”

 

“Don’t need your help.”

 

“I swear to god, Clinton Francis Barton, you will let me walk you home, or I will fireman carry your stupid, sloppy ass out of here.” For all his bluster, she’s holding up nearly all of his bodyweight.

 

“Fine. Alright. For my dignity.”

 

“Said Tony Stark’s booty call.”

 

“That was low.”

 

“Again, honest. That’s what friends are for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I will update pairing tags appropriately next chapter, as I didn't want them to spoil the "who's in the picture" surprise with tags.


	4. As Good a Place to Fall as Any

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint tries to convince himself he's happy. Tony doesn't help.

Clint’s slouched into his sofa, flipping through the Netflix menu halfheartedly when his phone rings. It’s Tony, and it’s been a week since Clint’s heard from the billionaire. He’s starting to come close to admitting that maybe Nat was right last night. Clint hesitates before picking up. “Tony…”

 

“Wanna come out tonight?”

 

The archer opens his mouth to agree, then hesitates. “I dunno, Tony. I got pretty banged up on my last op…”

 

“Not up to some dancing?”

 

“I’m wearing an eyepatch.”

 

“Did you get the trenchcoat and buzzkill disposition to go with it?”

 

“Tony. I’m in pain.” Clint tries not to think about how he means that on more than one level. Mostly since it seems a little emo.

 

“Then come on out. I’ll kiss it and make it better.”

 

Clint sighs. Tony doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.

 

\---=---

 

It’s one of their typical outings. Dancing, expensive steak, too much alcohol, and getting paraded around more like he’s one of Tony’s accessories than a real person. Clint tries a time or two to get the billionaire to have some kind of real discussion with him, and each time he gets shut down with flippant snark and a fresh drink shoved into his hand. By the time they get back to Tony’s suite in Stark Tower, though, Clint’s buzzed enough that he’s more or less forgotten his attempts at having any sort of a real date.

 

The moment they’re in the door, Tony’s pulling off his jacket and watch, looking at Clint like he’s dessert. “You’re going to need less clothes on,” Tony admonishes, pulling off his tie.

 

Clint shrugs his jacket off deliberately, then pauses before he gets any closer. “Can we… Can we talk?”

 

“Absolutely,” Tony agrees readily, closing the distance between them and unbuttoning Clint’s shirt, fingers trailing distractingly over bits of bared flesh. “But maybe not right now, huh?”

 

Clint opens his mouth to insist, but Tony’s lips are on his, tongue licking its way into his mouth, and the archer melts a little as his hands settle on Tony’s hips. He feels clever fingers slipping up and over his abs, and Clint thoroughly forgets that he’d set out to prove to himself that this is more than just sex. Touch is a powerful, deeply affecting thing for Clint, even simple contact. Perhaps it’s all the time he spends alone, or perhaps he’s just more sensitive, but whatever the case, it’s intense, and Tony Stark knows how to touch _really_ well. “Later,” he manages between kisses. He grunts as Tony manages to stick his fingers into some bruises Clint wasn’t previously aware of, driving a quiet grunt from him. “Easy. Told you, I’m sore.”

 

“Funny. You don’t usually complain about a little pain,” Tony counters smoothly, dragging Clint forward the last little bit until there isn’t even a breath of space between them.

 

Clint shivers pleasantly at the words, opening his mouth to respond and managing only a harsh sigh as Tony’s lips trail over his neck, stubble and beard rasping pleasantly against his skin. Teeth clamp down sharply on his neck, and Clint curses and then moans, his hips bucking forward. “Maybe a little’s fine,” he hears himself breathe out. Remembering he has hands of his own, Clint starts working Tony loose of his garments, though Tony’s doing more of the moving, somehow managing to touch and tease all the while he’s helping Clint remove his shirt. The archer vaguely registers the glow of the reactor from the corner of his eye, though he’s well used to it by now, to the odd feeling of faintly warm metal digging into his skin when Tony presses in close.

 

By the time Tony’s tugged Clint’s shirt down to his elbows and raised a few hickeys on his neck, the marksman’s forgotten any ideas he’s had about having a grownup discussion with the billionaire. He’s murmuring words of praise and approval and desire, and the only thing that matters is the feel of Tony’s hot, wet mouth moving over his neck, tempered by the occasional scrape of teeth. Tony holds him close, hands fisted in Clint’s shirt, asserting his control over the moment before he drags Clint to the bed.

 

Somewhat fuzzy from too many drinks, Clint barely follows what’s happening as he’s pushed face-first into the mattress. Tony pounces, straddling Clint’s lower back with grace that would belie his probable level of inebriation. The archer squirms under the warm weight pressing him into the bed, but he doesn’t protest. He feels strong, sure, experienced hands tugging at his shirt and realizes a moment later that Tony’s managed to bind his arms up in the garment from wrist to elbow. _With the shirt this time… This is new._ “Uh, Tony?”

 

“Shh. You’ll be fine. I’ll leave the bull whip for another night.” It’s always tough to tell when Tony’s joking.

 

Clint tests the bindings and finds himself surprised to note that they’re nothing he could slip out of without dislocating a shoulder, but he doesn’t get to reflect on that for long, because Tony’s shifting back to kneel between Clint’s knees and urge his hips up enough to undo belt and fly and tug the garments away, leaving Clint fully exposed on the bed.

 

Tony’s hands settle on either side of Clint, and the archer feels the heat of the other man’s body against his back as the billionaire draws a little closer. Soft kisses are scattered over Clint’s back, and he relaxes a little in spite of the pseudo bondage… until he feels Tony’s teeth sink into his shoulder. “Fuck!” he hisses, body jerking as he glances back over his shoulder at his partner. “Tony, I’m already sore, and—Ah!” Another bite interrupts him, but he can’t deny that the pain is doing something for him.

 

Gentle fingers slide up the back of his neck as Tony’s mouth gently soothes the ache away from the bites, and Clint groans softly. “See? Not so bad. You need to learn to bitch less. You know, before I have to use one of my ties to make you stop.”

 

That sounds a lot less like joking than Clint would like. He tries to turn his head to get a look at the man straddling his back, but can barely pick him out on the periphery of his vision. This isn’t the first time Clint’s had someone tie him up in bed, but it’s a first between him and Tony, and things seem to be escalating a little more quickly and a lot more outside Clint’s control than he’d like. “Just, y’know, thought it would’ve been nice to have a little warning.”

 

“You say that like I plan far enough ahead to give you a warning.”

 

“Fair—enough,” Clint manages, his voice hitching as another bite is planted on his neck. “How about no marks that I’m gonna have to put makeup over?”

 

“Just tell everyone you bit yourself shaving. Or blame it on that op or wherever this came from.”

 

Clint swears again as Tony sticks his fingers in another bruise. “Okay, _that_ was on purpose,” he growls, though it’s half-hearted at best as his pulse thrums adamantly. He moans a moment later as Tony’s tongue drags over the shell of his ear. “…and suddenly I don’t care.”

 

“Didn’t think so.”

 

Clint feels Tony’s weight shift followed by the man’s hands on his ass, kneading the taut muscle like it’s his property. The archer makes a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and Tony’s name as he feels the swipe of wet, hot tongue against his hole. Clint’s hands tighten against the small of his back as his arms flex against the shirt restraining them. He gasps out an affirmation as Tony keeps working him, his cock throbbing between his body and the sheets, and Clint squirms, wishing desperately that he could do something to alleviate some of his rising need.

 

Only when Clint has degenerated from begging for more to soft, incoherent mewling does Tony finally let up. Instead of giving Clint more, though, he draws away, leaving the archer to develop gooseflesh as the cool air of the room settles against his skin.

 

“Tony… Please…” Clint squirms against the mattress.

 

“Please what? Tell me what you want.”

 

“C’mon, Tony, I—“

 

“Say it.”

 

The steel in Tony’s voice does nothing but drive a thrill through Clint, and he moans in spite of himself. “Fuck me, Tony. Please… Need it.” His voice is so rough with need he barely recognizes it as his own.

 

Clint feels Tony’s hands come to rest on either side of his waist, the warmth of his partner’s body against his back once more, and he makes a soft sound of aroused anticipation as Tony’s lips fall on his shoulders once more. The archer doesn’t protest with anything more than a gasp as more bites are added to the mix this time, moaning a moment later as Tony’s cock glides between his buttocks, slicking his skin with precum. A slight shift on Tony’s part, and Clint’s groaning out his encouragement as his partner’s cock presses slowly into him. “Don’t stop…”

 

“Hadn’t planned to.” Tony’s voice is level but clearly breathless for all his attempts at staying in control, and the low moan that escapes his lips is enough to send another thrill through Clint’s body.

 

“Yes, Tony,” Clint groans as his partner’s cock slides home. “More… Fuck me… hard. Please…” He gasps as Tony obliges him, forgetting the ache in his shoulders from the bindings in favor of focusing on the perfect slide of Tony’s cock inside him. The occasional twinge of injuries in his body and the bites Tony places on his skin blend into the pleasure of the other man’s dick slamming into that perfect spot inside him, and Clint loses himself in the act as he always does, a slave to Tony’s skill and charisma. At length, the pleasure becomes too much, and Clint cums with a raw cry, trembling and bucking against the mattress as Tony finds his peak at nearly the same moment.

 

After a few moments of lying in a sweaty, panting pile together, the two roll apart, and Tony has the wherewithal to untie Clint’s arms. The archer sits up, stretching his shoulders and rubbing at his wrists. He quietly goes to shower, returning to find Tony sprawled over the sheets, still nude and playing with his tablet, apparently reading some newly published research.

 

Stark pats the sheets next to himself. “Hop in. You can sleep here tonight.”

 

Clint starts to take the invitation, then stops and shakes his head, “Not tonight, Tony,” moving to gather his scattered clothing.

 

Tony puts the tablet aside and tilts his head. “You always stay.” Is he pouting a little?

 

“Yeah, just don’t feel like waking up to a morning glory.” Clint tries not to sound as raw and bitter as he feels as he tugs on his jeans.

 

“Oh, boy. Something’s eating you.”

 

“Yeah.” Clint pulls on his pants a little more jerkily than he’d have liked.

 

“So… gonna enlighten me, or what?”

 

Clint takes a deep breath and straightens, his hand wrapped around the collar of his shirt. “What is this?”

 

“I’d say that’s a shirt. Yours, to be exact.”

 

Clint gives Tony a look he’s learned from Pepper; the one that says he wants a real answer and isn’t going away until he gets one. Met with a silently petulant stare, Clint uses a finger to gesture between the two of them. _“This,_ Tony. What is it? What are we doing?”

 

“Having incredible sex? With no strings attached?”

 

Clint’s breath hisses out through his nostrils, his jaw tightening as he nods. “Yeah, thought so,” he says, tugging his shirt on. He doesn’t get to start buttoning it before Tony sits up a little taller on the bed.

  
“You thought it was more.” It’s a strangely straightforward observation, considering the source.

 

“Yeah,” Clint says, fumbling to try and button his shirt before giving up and leaving it hanging, rumpled and slightly lopsided, from his shoulders. “Well, maybe _hoped_ would be more accurate.”

 

Tony shakes his head. “Clint, I’m not really—“

 

Clint holds up his hand. Tony’s good at saying hurtful things when he intends to. When he _doesn’t_ intend to, he’s damn near superhuman at it. “Yeah, I get it. Stupid idea. I know.” His voice is shaking a little, and he has to swallow a few times before he can continue. “I guess I knew it from the get-go. Not your fault. I was just… Well, nevermind what I was doing.” He picks up his shoes, trying not to feel as bitter and angry as he does. Gathering his wallet and watch, he shoves them both in his pocket and moves to the door. “Just… Nothing personal, but the next time you need someone to stick your dick in? Don’t call me.” He doesn’t wait for a response before he slips out the door, barefoot and not really giving a damn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little over halfway there (since last chapter is actually epilogue)! The feedback and response has been staggering! Thank ALL OF YOU for reading!


	5. And He Took Me to the River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People keep breaking into Clint's apartment, but it's for his own good.

Clint sighs as he unlocks the door to his apartment and steps in. The place feels emptier than usual, which is saying something considering how it’s felt for the past two years. He tosses his keys on the kitchen table, then freezes as his eyes drift over the kitchen counter. A half dozen red roses are sitting on the counter in a tastefully simple vase, and Clint knows better than to think they’re from Tony.

 

The archer stares at the roses, a million possibilities flitting through his head, everything from the thought that they could somehow be an enemy ploy to secret admirers to… He won’t let himself think it, even though he _knows_ what the answer is. There’s a small, white card nestled amidst the flowers’ stems, and Clint’s gaze lingers on it for several moments as he tries to talk himself into opening it.

 

Seconds tick by, and Clint finally gives in. Callused, faintly shaking hands crease the card open. The handwriting is unmistakable in spite of the brief message: “Sorry – P”

 

“He’s never been long-winded about his feelings, you know.”

 

Clint’s back goes rigid, and he’s half-crouched into a fighting stance before higher brain function catches up and he realizes who it is. “Nat. Jesus.” He takes a deep breath, straightening. “When and how the fuck did _you_ get in here?”

 

Natasha, wearing jeans, t-shirt, and a leather jacket, is reclining on the living room couch like she’s been there all along. In his current state of mind, Clint isn’t sure he didn’t simply overlook her when he walked in. “Same way I get into any other place I want to,” she says, pushing herself up off the couch and gliding over easily to lean against the refrigerator. “You should accept it. The apology, I mean.”

 

“You read the card, too?” Clint rolls his eyes. “So, what? You here for Fury, or as a concerned friend?”

 

“Fury doesn’t know I’m here.” A pause. “Okay, he probably _does_ know I’m here, but it’s not because I told him.” Nat gestures, an odd sort of shrug, almost as though she’s not sure how to justify her actions. “More the friend thing.”

 

“Nat.” Clint pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and takes a deep breath. “Look at me. Look, I know… Terrible background and creepy Soviet brainwashing and all, but,” he holds up an emphatic finger, “just to be clear? This is _not_ normal human behavior. Real people don’t break into their friends’ apartments and read love letters that their dead boyfriends have left them.”

 

Nat folds her arms over her chest and straightens, raising an eyebrow at Clint. “Do I need to repeat that back to you, or are you aware of just how stupid it sounded?”

 

Clint sighs, turning back to the counter, taking the card between the knuckles of his index and middle finger and flicking at it with his thumb. He shakes his head fractionally. “I can’t.”

 

“You can, actually. Not hard to do.”

 

“It doesn’t seem real.”

 

“Fair enough. But it _is_ real. Look, you’ve met aliens, shot them out of the sky. You know a guy that turns into a giant green wrecking ball and a seventy year old super soldier that looks like he’s half your age. You’ve met a god. You’ve had your brain hijacked by—“ Clint tenses and turns his gaze sharply to her, and Nat stops mid-sentence, hands held up in a placating gesture. “Right. Too soon. Point being, you’ve seen some shit.  Is it _really_ that inconceivable that Coulson’s alive somehow?”

 

Clint’s staring at the card again, still fiddling with it, not daring to open it again. “No.” The reply is more an exhalation than a word, and Clint presses his lips together in a thin line as he tries to keep his breathing level and fight off the tears he feels threatening.

 

“Then you should at least talk to him. Like a grownup this time.”

 

“So… So he’s really alive, but… Nat, what if something happens again? For keeps, this time? I can’t…”

 

“Look, you’ve already broken up with Stark, so you’re already—“  


Clint runs a hand over his face and rolls his eyes heavenward before leveling an exasperated stare on the woman. “Jesus, Nat, really? That happened an _hour_ ago. How the hell did you—?”

 

“I’ve been following you.” The statement is uncomfortably matter-of-fact.

 

“Okay, again... _Not_. Normal.”

 

“This may shock you, but I’m aware of that. But you’ve been an idiot these past few days, and I’m really not willing to let you do stupid shit because you’re scared. For one? Not the Barton I know. For another…” She slips forward and pulls him into a tight hug so brief that he’s still standing there with his arms half-raised in a delayed attempt to reciprocate when she withdraws. “You’re my best friend. My _only_ friend. I want you to be happy, and I’m going to make sure you are. Even if I have to go through your trash to do it. And while we’re on that? More real food, fewer protein bars.”

 

Clint sighs, looking resigned. “If it’ll keep you from going through my porn while I’m at work, I’ll talk to him.”

 

“Good. Your stuff is too tame, anyway.” She smirks and pats him on the cheek.

 

Clint isn’t even going to ask about that one. “Any idea what his phone number is, since your new hobby is my personal life?”

 

She shrugs. “No, but you know him better than I do. I’m sure he’ll have left you a clue in here somewhere.”

 

Clint nods, looking around the apartment as if something might jump out at him. “Right.” He notices Nat moving toward the living room. “Leaving already?”

 

“You have homework. Wouldn’t want to distract you.”

 

 “Going out the front door? Not gonna just rappel out my bedroom window?” He can’t help a faint smirk in spite of himself as she slips out, and the last he sees of her is her arm, at the end of which is her extended middle finger.


	6. My Love Has Concrete Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint accepts the apology. But...

It’s been a week since Clint found the roses. He’s still wearing the eyepatch—the docs had to do some kind of surgical something-or-other and told him it’d be there at least a month—and he’s still trying to keep the flowers alive. Clint’s tried virtually everything he’s found on Google, and then some, but the roses are a lost cause. He can’t quite bring himself to throw them out, though, and he’s standing in his kitchen, beer in hand, staring at them like they’re the most complex puzzle he’s ever attempted. Which would be a Rubix Cube. But that’s beside the point, really.

 

The real puzzle is what to do about the apology and _how_ to do it. He has a nagging feeling that he’s running short on time. The roses were more than just a gift. If Phil had just been giving him a “goodbye, I’m sorry” gift, it would’ve been something made to last. The roses were a message in and of themselves: _I can’t wait forever._

 

With a sigh, Clint nods to himself and sets the beer aside as he finally comes to a decision. “Alright, Phil. I forgive you,” he mutters into the empty room. “Now how the hell do I find you to tell you?” Clint’s turned his apartment inside-out—and hasn’t bothered to straighten it back up—looking for some clue, some indication of how to find the other man. Nothing. And Clint never misses anything.

 

Clint picks up his beer to finish it, and watching the last of it drain from the bottle gives him an idea. There’s one more place he hasn’t looked. He’s already looked _under_ the vase. Looking at the _bottom_ of it hasn’t occurred to him, not in the least because he’s been stubbornly hanging onto the flowers in it.

 

The archer carefully extracts the flowers from the vase, still managing to knock loose most of the remaining petals, and dumps it in the sink. He stares hard at the raw white porcelain on the bottom and curses softly when he finds nothing. One last option occurs to him, and Clint turns the vase upright once more and peers inside. It’s too dark to be sure, and he grabs a flashlight from a nearby drawer and shines it into the bottom. Clint feels relief wash over him when he finds ten digits scraped roughly into the black glaze. “Phil, you son of a bitch. You thought I wouldn’t be able to keep them alive this long,” he murmurs to himself, committing the numbers to memory before he dries his hands and digs his phone out of the disaster that his apartment has become.

 

Agonizing seconds pass as the phone rings, and then Clint has to fight to breathe at the sound of Phil’s curt greeting. “P…” His voice fails him a second, and he has to clear his throat. “Phil.”

 

“I was starting to think you weren’t going to call.”

 

“The roses lasted longer than you expected.”

 

A soft laugh comes back through the phone, and Clint is pretty sure it shouldn’t be possible for a simple sound to make him feel gutted and elated all at once. “They didn’t, usually.”

 

“Usually they weren’t the only thing I had of you.” He doesn’t mean to sound as hurt and bitter as he does, but he can’t hide it.

 

“This is a conversation we should have in person.”

 

“Where? When?”

 

“Remember our first date?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Tomorrow. Same time and place.”

 

“Alright.”

 

“And, Barton?”

 

Hearing his last name from Phil elicits the same reflexive response that it has for years, “Yeah, boss?”

 

“Don’t be late this time.”

 

Clint feels a hint of a smile tug at his lips as the connection goes dead. “Not this time,” he says softly.

 

\---=---

 

It takes Clint little time to pick Phil out of the park crowd in the late afternoon sun. The man feeding ducks by the lake may be wearing glasses and a hoodie to hide his face, but Clint can’t mistake the body language, the carriage… It’s so familiar it’s like a punch in the gut at first.

 

The archer closes distance with Phil, stopping a few feet behind him. “Ducks haven’t changed.”

 

“That one has,” Phil nods to one bird. “He had a hurt foot last time. Looks like he’s better.”

 

“Gimpy,” Clint remembers the name they’d given the duck. His eyes drift back to Phil, his mouth opening and closing a few times as he searches for words. He wants to ask a million questions, demand answers, but all he can muster is a ragged, “Why?”

 

“A lot of reasons.” Phil tosses the last of the food to the ducks, turning to settle on a nearby bench and gesturing for Clint to settle next to him. Once Clint reluctantly does so, Phil places his elbows deliberately on his knees, obviously gathering his thoughts. “After… after I woke up, no one told me what had happened to you, and I couldn’t find any files on it. No post-mission report, nothing. It was like you hadn’t even been there. No mention of Loki…” Phil trails off, pressing his lips together as he looks away. “I was afraid to ask at first. When I finally did, no one would tell me if you were dead or… or still… gone. Not even Fury. When I finally _did_ get an answer… They told me you were alive and apparently healthy. That was it. Not what you were doing, not whether you were with anyone… Nothing. I found out later that Fury was afraid you might still have… residual problems. From what happened.” Phil looks miserable as he says the words, shaking his head. “Fury was afraid that you might still be a sleeper, and he didn’t want you knowing I was alive if that was the case.”

 

“You could’ve… just come look for me. I mean, it’s not like you didn’t know, couldn’t find out.” Clint’s voice is shaking. He’s barely holding it together, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to come apart in the middle of the park. “Wouldn’t be the first time you disobeyed an order.”

 

Phil nods, looking strangely small on the park bench. “I know. Part of me was afraid of the answer. Now that I have it—“ He stops dead when Clint’s hand falls on his arm.

 

“You don’t.” Clint shakes his head at Phil’s questioning look. “I know I said I’d moved on, but… That was a lie. One I told myself before I told you, but still a lie.”

 

“Then, for god’s sake, Clint, just—“

 

“I need to think about this.” Clint rises abruptly, feeling panic welling up and unable to pinpoint the source. He wants to be angry with Phil, wants to hate him to his core. Instead, he just finds himself caught between hope and fear.

 

“Alright. That’s fair.” Phil takes a breath. “The burner phone’s gonna last me about three more days. You don’t answer me by then, I have to go dark and… You won’t find me after that.”

 

Clint opens his mouth as if to say something, then presses his lips together and nods. “Got it.” With that, he jams his hands into his pockets and forces himself to walk away.

 

\---=---

 

Clint’s given friendlier looks to prisoners in the interrogation room. His phone probably doesn’t deserve the glowering it’s receiving. It’s laying, inert, on his coffee table, and he’s given up trying to focus on the Pixar film playing out on his TV. He reaches for the phone, his fingertips brushing against the face, then reluctantly withdraws his hand. It’s a cycle that’s repeated itself dozens of times over the past two and a half days, and Clint knows he’s running out of time.

 

The phone number runs through Clint’s head once more, and he’s finally in motion without thought, his fingers seizing around the phone case and drawing it close enough for him to dial. He puts the phone to his ear and waits the agonizing seconds until he hears the connection click on and takes a breath to great the other man. Instead, he’s met with a recording: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please—“

 

Clint hurriedly ends the call, his hand clenching around the phone as his throat tightens. His mind screams that it’s unfair, that he still had time, that he couldn’t have misunderstood. The phone slips from his hand a moment later and thumps against the carpeted floor as Clint’s hands tangle in his own hair, his elbows bracing on his knees as the tears start and he finally lets them come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't take full credit for the ducks. It was an inside thing from an RP @ElizabethWilde and I have together. But I had to incorporate it, because 'feeding the ducks' has somehow become code for 'really romantic Phlint moment'... at least in my vocabulary.


	7. My Feet Never Touched the Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil has to know for sure.

Clint jerks awake, heart hammering in his chest. His good eye darts around the room and he tenses as he catches sight of a silhouette.

 

“It’s me.” Phil’s voice, confident but hurried, rings out, his hands raising defensively.

 

A deep breath. “I swear to fuck, I need to find a job where my coworkers just fucking _call_ when they need something,” Clint growls, but he’s already rolling up out of the bed and closing distance with Phil like a predator on his prey.

 

“There was an… incident, and I had to ditch the phone early, but I couldn’t go without knowing for sure that…” Phil trails off as trembling, calloused hands press against his chest and push him back into the wall, his own hands rising to close over them reflexively. “Clint?” He utters the name uncertainly.

 

“Shh… Just… shut up. I’ll talk in a minute. Need to know you’re real,” the archer rasps, his fingers tangling in Phil’s button-down shirt and clinging tight as he slams his mouth to waiting lips. Phil’s arms wrap around him, and Clint feels tears sting his eyes, soaking his eyepatch as he melts against the other man’s body. Unable to breathe properly, he shifts to bury his face in Phil’s neck, holding on desperately, shaking with relief. Phil holds him until he’s gotten himself back together. It seems like forever, but Phil doesn’t move, just hangs on, his fingers running soothingly through Clint’s hair as tears soak his shirt. Finally, Clint manages to get himself together enough to mumble, “I can’t lose you again.”

 

“I know.” The statement is maddeningly simple. Typical Phil. “But we can’t protect each other from everything.”

 

Clint takes a deep breath, straightens enough to make eye contact. “What if—“

 

“There’s always a ‘what if’.” The reminder is sharp but still spoken softly. “If you tell me to go again, Clint, I will. But if I do, I’m gone for good.” Phil looks honestly scared as he utters the warning, and Clint can’t help but feel like an ass for having done anything to let that thought even cross Phil’s mind.

 

“Don’t leave. Don’t ever leave,” Clint murmurs, his hand fisting in Phil’s shirt and dragging him into another kiss. They draw apart for air, and Phil is nuzzling his jaw, kissing the spot on his neck that no one else has ever found, the one that makes him weak in the knees. “Phil…?” His voice is already pitched a little lower.

 

“It’s been two years, and if you think I’m waiting another minute, you’re out of your mind.”

 

Clint opens his mouth to tell Phil he doesn’t have any objections, but Phil’s lips stifle anything but soft sighs and moans, and eager hands roam over Clint’s skin, bared save for his boxers. Clint’s barely aware that he’s being ushered to the bed before the backs of his legs hit the mattress. He easily settles back, dragging Phil along with him, hooking a leg over his lover’s hip, his fingers deftly working their way into Phil’s shirt.

 

Phil’s hand shoves the questing fingers away as Clint tries to tug his now open shirt away. “Leave it,” he directs, voice soft but leaving no room for objection. He smirks faintly as Clint makes a sound of protest. “Don’t forget who’s in charge, here.”

 

“Right,” Clint murmurs with a nod, gasping as Phil places a gentle bite on his shoulder. He tenses suddenly as he remembers the healing, bite-shaped bruises still scattered over his neck from his last escapade with Tony. “Phil, I—“

 

“Yeah, I know. Nat told me.”

 

“You’re okay with it?” Clint sounds uncertain even as Phil grabs his wrists and pins them to the mattress over his head.

 

“I wouldn’t say _that_ , exactly.” Clint feels Phil’s breath against his ear and can’t bite back a soft moan. “But I’m going to have to remind Stark not to touch my stuff.”

 

“We broke—up.” Clint’s voice catches as Phil sucks at his neck.

 

“Still bears stating. And I’m gonna need you to burn that picture of you two. If you haven’t already.” The hands leave Clint’s wrists, and he starts to move, but, “Leave them there.”

 

Clint quickly puts his hands back where Phil left them. “Just gotta say you’re taking it pretty w… ell.” His hips rock up into Phil’s hand, his lips parting soundlessly as sure fingers close around his cock.

 

“Oh, don’t think you’re getting away with it. I just have to figure out how you’re going to make it up to me.”

 

“I could make you a steak din… dinner.” Clint’s breath hitches as sure fingers slide over the growing bulge in his boxers and give him a firm squeeze.

 

“I was thinking something that involved handcuffs.”

 

Clint squirms, his hands twitching a little as he resists the urge to touch his lover, who’s looking at him steadily and whose thumb is teasing him to full hardness. “You sure that won’t be as good for me as it is for you?” he breathes, managing to keep his voice from trembling _too_ much.

 

Phil smirks, his hand falling away from his lover’s cock as he moves in for a kiss, his leg settling between Clint’s thighs, his hands sliding up the archer’s powerful arms. “I’m sure it will be. But,” he leans in to whisper in Clint’s ear, “you’re gonna beg before I get done with you.”

 

Clint opens his mouth to tell Phil he can’t wait when telling clicks and cold metal against his wrist catch his attention. He gives his lover an earnestly surprised look. “Uh… Do you _usually_ keep handcuffs with you?”

 

“I had a little time to explore before you got home.” Phil’s casually securing Clint’s wrists to the headboard, the action surprisingly deft. “Which means the question is really, ‘Do _you_ usually keep handcuffs in your nightstand?’ Or maybe I should ask why you didn’t tell me you liked them in the first place.”

 

“I didn’t know?” Soft lips are moving over his jaw and neck again, and Clint is already drifting off into the pleasure when a sharp nip at his neck jars him back to the conversation. “I swear, I didn’t!”

 

“I believe you.” Phil’s breath and then his lips pass over Clint’s ear. “But that means that someone else showed you, doesn’t it?”

 

Dammit, Phil. Always making leaps of logic. “Stark.” A sharper nip drives a gasp from Clint. “Jesus! Fuck, I would’ve… If you’d asked I would’ve—“

 

“I think I _did_ ask once, actually.”

 

“Phil, I don’t think you wanna know how—Ow, fuck! Okay, if you’re gonna keep biting me—“

 

“You like it.”

 

“…fair. But… Look, I was _really_ drunk and Tony’s almost as sneaky as you are with them. Except he doesn’t really listen too well to drunken protests, and he’s _really good_ with his mou—“ Clint gasps mid-sentence as Phil twists one of his nipples to the point of near-pain. “Fuck, Phil, _you_ asked—“

 

“ _Not…_ for _that_ level of detail.”

 

Clint opens his mouth to reply, but he’s silenced with a kiss, hard and passionate, wet and sloppy. He groans, responding in kind, his arms pulling reflexively against the cuffs as he tries vainly to reach for his lover. They pant into each other’s mouths, licking and nipping at each other’s lips, Clint sucking at Phil’s tongue until his lover is driven to fucking his mouth with it.

 

His whimpers and moans have reached a near-fevered pitch before Phil relents, sliding a hand down the front of Clint’s boxers to wrap it around the archer’s cock. Clint gasps and bucks into the touch, murmuring a plea for more that Phil quickly shushes, “Not so fast.”

 

Phil slides away from the bed, casually moving to fish the lube from the nightstand before settling on the bed next to Clint, watching his lover casually. “This is a good look for you.”

 

Clint’s toes curl a little as he shifts uselessly against the sheets. “You know, though, strangely kind of not very satisfying right at the moment,” he notes, trying to keep the rasp out of his voice and failing utterly.

 

“It will be.” With leisurely movements, Phil palms some of the lube and sets the bottle aside, tilting his head as he looks down at the bound archer appreciatively, spreading the lube over his palm. Slick fingers flick across Clint’s nipple, just enough contact to draw a gasp, before moving away.

 

Gooseflesh rises on his skin as the lube cools, and Clint looks at Phil to protest only to realize that deliciously lubed hand has disappeared down the front of his lover’s slacks. The look of naked lust on Phil’s face drives needy whimpers from Clint’s throat, and he jerks at the cuffs hard enough to bruise himself in his attempts to reach for his lover again. “Phil… Jesus, you don’t have to… Let… Let me,” he growls, licking his lips.

 

Phil’s eyes seem to darken to steel gray. “Well, when you put it that way,” he murmurs, easily straddling Clint’s chest.

 

Clint doesn’t miss the fact that Phil’s keeping his clothes on for the most part. It’s a power play, and Clint loves every second of it, taking the cock presented to him between his lips without a thought. He moans as his lover’s scent and taste bring memories rushing back, sensual and sweet and rough and raw. The thick shaft glides easily down his throat, and Clint groans his pleasure, his hands tightening above the cuffs as Phil takes his pleasure.

 

The archer’s starting to feel lightheaded before Phil finally draws away with a low moan, and Clint gasps for air as his lover resettles between Clint’s knees. He doesn’t get much of a chance to catch his breath, though, as his boxers are tugged away and freshly-slickened fingers begin to prod his entrance. Clint spreads his legs to the contact without a second’s thought, his head lolling against his arm as he closes his eyes and murmurs his lover’s name. Words escape him a moment later as first one, then two fingers slowly prod him open, his eyes flashing open and his lips parting in a soundless gasp as the digits glide against that perfect spot inside him. “Phil…”

 

“Hm?”

 

Clint opens his mouth to elaborate, but a third finger pressing into him drives all coherency from him once more, and he’s reduced to little more than needy mewling sounds as Phil teases him mercilessly, fingers thrusting just fast enough to make him want without giving him any satisfaction. The archer finally finds his words again and manages, “Phil, please just… just fuck me. I need it. I need _you.”_

 

“Oh. Well, why didn’t you just say so?” Phil’s smirking, though there’s something wickedly dark to the expression as his fingers withdraw and he leans in for a kiss.

 

The kiss distracts Clint enough that he’s almost taken by surprise yet again by the feel of his lover’s cock slowly prying him open. His teeth rake artlessly against Phil’s tongue in his distraction, but that only seems to encourage his lover, and Clint growls and groans against Phil’s lips as his lover’s tongue plunders his mouth.

 

Phil takes his time, thrusting deliberately at first, his cock occasionally striking that perfectly sweet spot, his lips occasionally finding their way to the patch of skin on Clint’s neck that seems to be directly connected to his cock. They’re well beyond words, expressing everything groans and nips, tensed backs and sloppy kisses, curled toes and grasping fingers. Eventually, it’s obviously too much for even Phil’s discipline and patience, and he’s thrusting hard and striking that perfect spot inside Clint, driving moan after needy moan from him.

 

When Clint finally cums, it’s blinding, mind-blowing, and he takes a moment to realize the ragged cries of pleasure are coming from him. His wrists are sore, chafed, and bruised, and he doesn’t give a damn as his release splashes over his taut stomach. Phil comes moments later, and then they’re both sagging against the bed, too boneless to move.

 

Eventually, Phil stirs, pressing his lips to Clint’s cheek as he clicks the handcuffs free. “You have no idea how much I missed hearing you make those sounds,” he murmurs, sagging against his lover gratefully as Clint’s arms wrap around him.

 

“Oh, I think I’ve got an idea,” Clint says, burying his face in Phil’s neck and holding onto the man for dear life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's about all, folks! There's a little epilogue, though. Y'all might like it ;)


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint makes a new friend, and Coulson goes a little mafia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half was entirely my idea. You can blame @narnia2375 for the second half. I figure second half is a little off-canon for how I actually picture Phil and this fic going, but it's fun, so... just take it with a grain of salt. I had fun writing it, for sure.

“...you live on a bus, now.” Clint is pretty sure his skeptically arched eyebrow has disappeared into his hairline somewhere as the elevator slides to a halt.

 

That infuriatingly impish smile. “You’ll like it. It’s a _nice_ bus.”

 

“Phil, you have a flying car, and you’re telling me you’d rather run around in a to…u…r… bus. That’s not a bus.” Clint points to the hulking aircraft. “That’s not even… Are those _VSTOL_ engines?” He’s starting to look excited. He darts for the plane, leaving Phil to shoulder his belongings—two whole duffel bags—and follow along with an amused smile. Clint’s already rattling off his observations of the plane, estimations on fuel usage, operating costs, etc.

 

“We’ve got a room for you. But I figured you’d be staying with m—“ Phil’s cut off as Clint pounces on him and kisses him excitedly.

 

“I get to fly, right?”

 

“No.”

 

The cool negation freezes Clint in his tracks, and he looks for its source. “Uh… Phil? Who’s that? And then reassure me that she’s married or that you haven’t been living in a plane with her for the past two years.”

 

May folds her arms over her chest and raises an eyebrow at Phil. “You didn’t tell me he was a drama whore.”

 

“Ladies.” Phil returns their glares with an easy smile. “Before we get into hair pulling territory... Clint, May’s a friend. _Just_ a friend. She’s also the pilot. Though I’m sure she’ll let you copilot.” He raises his eyebrows at May. “And he’s only a little over dramatic.”

 

May grunts quietly but finally offers Clint a hand and a faint smile. “Well, welcome to the team. It’ll be good to have you around. I’m tired of listening to Phil talk about missing you.”

 

Clint shakes her hand—notes a surprisingly powerful grip—and mutters his thanks. Watching her glide back up the ramp to the bus, he smirks. “So, is everyone on the team as charming?”

 

“Better,” Phil replies, thrusting Clint’s bags back into the archer’s care and leading the way to the Bus’s ramp. “You’ll like Ward even more.”

 

\---=---

 

Phil’s disobeying an order. But once you’ve stomped into Nick Fury’s office and told him you’re going to do something whether or not he approves and lived to tell of it, you start feeling a little ballsy. Jarvis lets him know he’s on the penthouse level of the Tower, and Phil straightens his suit.

 

“Jarvis, I thought I told you I… wasn’t… here-You’re dead.” Tony manages to set his whiskey glass down on the end table, but not without a lot of clattering.

 

Tony looks shaken. It makes Phil smile. “I got better.”

 

The billionaire, in nothing but a pair of pajama pants—Captain America-themed ones, no less, and Phil’s not going to ask about that—sits up a little straighter in his armchair. “You got stabbed in the heart. I saw the security footage in debrief.”

 

Phil sighs, unbuttons jacket and undershirt long enough to flash the scar at Stark before he raises an eyebrow at the man. “Believe me now?”

 

Tony’s silent a long time before he gets up to approach Phil. “...okay. Fine. Good. But if you’re here to recruit me for SHIELD’s next boy band, I’m not—“

 

“This is a personal visit.”

 

Stark looks even more confused. “Personal,” he echoes skeptically.

 

“Yeah.” Phil draws something dark and made of mostly plastic from his pocket, leveling it at Stark. “Don’t touch my stuff.” He fires the taser and smirks as Tony yelps and hits the floor. Stepping over Tony’s barely-conscious form, he settles into the cushy leather armchair in front of the television and puts one foot up on the coffee table. “Jarvis?”

 

“…sir?” The AI almost sounds like it feels awkward about the whole scene.

 

“I don’t suppose you have any episodes of Super Nanny?”

**Author's Note:**

> The main title and all but I think one of the chapter titles come from the song "Heavy in Your Arms" by Florence + the Machine. FatM was pretty much my soundtrack for all of this, plus a little Lana Del Rey. Go listen to them. It's good for you.
> 
> Thanks in advance for any kudos and comments! I'll likely respond to any thoughtful comments directly, though, 'cause I love 'em!


End file.
